


one more to freedom

by wintervioleteye (hawkguyed)



Series: lay your ship bare [1]
Category: Death Race (2008), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Death Race AU, Gen, M/M, adrenaline junkie Clint, and some villians, dangerous driving, don't do this at home kids, everything I do I do it for you, sorta fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkguyed/pseuds/wintervioleteye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint doesn't do this because he's chained to the prison. (Death Race AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	one more to freedom

**Author's Note:**

> I hereby dedicated this to [gilesfarnaby](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gilesfarnaby) for the momentary inspiration that culminated in this, and [lucdarling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling) and generally EVERYONE in feelschat because ilu you guys so much.

He rips the headset off because Steve is shouting something about safety in his ear (and there is no such thing as safety in a race like this). It’s starting to distract him from what he needs to do. The man wrenches the steering to glide his car past the _Latveria_ and over a lit sword panel, crowing delightedly as he does.

Clint doesn't do this because he's chained to the prison.

The man is an adrenaline junkie and the best driver that the island has ever seen, consistently setting new records and smashing his old ones to bits. (There are rumors that his team are behind the replacement of their previous warden.)

Clint grins when he spots another car around the next curve, the sunlight highlighting its faded green and tarnished gold colors. 

His grin morphs into a wild and feral look of savage glee as he slams the foot down on the accelerator, roar of the engines fading into the background noise of the crowd's cheers. The _Hawkeye_ hugs the tight curve and Clint mentally thanks Tony again for the ingenious new stabilizers he'd somehow magicked out of the scrap-pile that is their supplies when the _Trickster_ swerves and flips over and into the wall, the weight of its defense upsetting what had been a controlled turn until Clint came along and threw a wrench into things. 

Clint pumps his fist and makes another right turn. Now the finish line is in sight with no one standing between him and the faded, checkered line. 

He sends the car into a tailspin as the crowd gasps collectively and nicks the wall before coming to a halt inches past the finish line, wheels smoking and a new set of skid marks over the dozen or so permanently burnt onto the tarmac. 

The long abandoned headset beside him crackles as Clint pulls it back over his ears. The voices are mixed: Tony's gleeful cheering, Steve's admonishments about his utter disregard for personal safety and Tasha's steady stream of Russian blend into a cacophony amidst the quickly fading cheers of a distant crowd. 

The car is taken back to the hangar with a neat line of bullet holes just below Clint's seat from when some other driver had swiped the offense and shot point blank at him. Clint had retaliated, tossing one of Bruce's passively dangerous smoke bombs through the tiny slit of what passed for windows on the heavily armored cars; he’d caught sight of the offending vehicle spinning out of control with smoke streaming when he gunned the engine and rocketed past to open road.

Clint climbs free of the safety straps when the car stops, practically sauntering over to the workbench where Phil is with his back to him and up to his arms in grease. Steve might be team captain and Tony might be their genius inventor, but Phil is the one who keeps the engines oiled and the tires inflated and the car running because Clint can never remember no matter how much of a fantastic driver he is. 

"Hey." Clint's voice is barely louder than the clanking that echoes around them in the hangar. The workroom is empty save for the two of them because it's Phil's territory and exclusively his, no matter what Tony says otherwise (the man has a room in the hangar all to himself already). The rest of the team barely steps foot in here unless they absolutely need to because half of them can't navigate the organization of shelves, racks and neatly stacked boxes and the other half get pointed in the direction of the door before they even get two steps in.

Phil doesn't turn around at the greeting, intent on diligently repairing one of the engines Clint had wrecked two races ago when the _Hawkeye_ had slid past _Mjolnir_ to reach the finish in a blaze of fire and smoke as parts went pop under the hood.

"Heard Rogers yelling at you again," Phil’s tone is flat as his roughened fingers pull loose a badly charred cable, tossing it to the table. He's still not looking at Clint and it's one of the signs that Phil is a little angry at him (again). "And you weren't listening." 

Clint isn't racing because he's a prisoner. 

He wears a brilliant purple shirt with a jet black hawk emblazoned across his back because he's already free, just like Tasha and Steve and Tony. He’s a splash of bright color amongst the dull tarnished silver of the workshop and the pale, faded orange of Phil's jumpsuit.

"Cap's paranoid. They don't call it a death race for nothing." Clint shrugs, haphazardly pushing things aside on the workbench to clear a space to sit right beside the engine he'd wrecked. Phil turns a disapproving eye to him before returning back to the sad hunk of metal, installing another mostly new set of wires. Anyone else would have gotten kicked out of the workshop for pulling a stunt like that except Clint is Clint and Phil doesn't protest when the driver leans closer. His fingers close over Phil’s on the burnt metal despite the slickness of engine oil on the mechanic’s fingers and Clint presses a quick kiss against the side of his neck. 

"It's precisely why it's called death race, Barton. People die." The mechanic pulls back before diving back into the tangled mess of twisted metal and burnt soldering, making Clint wonder how the hell he does the job with barely a scratch on his hands. Phil doesn't comment on the fact that, more often than not, Clint is the reason why people die in the races (and the fact that Clint is also the reason why all of them are still alive and most of them are already free). 

Clint doesn’t answer verbally but winds his arms around Phil's shoulders to drag him away from the engine. He doesn’t appreciate a contender for his mechanic’s affections and attentions, not even if it’s Phil’s job to deal with the engines that Clint breaks. 

“One more to freedom, Phil.” 

Phil’s arms are covered in grease and oil, leaving marks against Clint’s tanned skin. The driver interlaces their fingers and curls himself over Phil as the mechanic leans against the bench, resting his jaw against the top of Phil’s head. 

“Come back alive, Clint.”


End file.
